


The Musician with Poison Tears

by sweetiepie08



Series: Musician with Poison Tears [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, Tumblr, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetiepie08/pseuds/sweetiepie08
Summary: Miguel Rivera’s been fascinated by the story of the legendary ghost, the Musician with Poison Tears, since he was a kid. He’s always wanted to know the full story behind the weeping specter that haunts the train station with its invisible guitar. Now 18, the travels to Mexico City to try to observe the ghost from afar and get some clues about its origin. Who knows? He might even get a song out of it.This story is based on the art and ghost!au created by melcecilia14 on tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a ghost that haunts the Buenavista Station in Mexico City. No one knows where he came from, but he’s haunted the train station for 100 years. You can tell he’s near by the ghostly guitar music that wafts through the air. Some have spotted him sitting on a ledge or a staircase, moving his fingers as if playing the instrument.

To most, he’s a harmless spirit. You can see him from afar, shuffling through the crowd, trying to board a train, or playing his phantom guitar. Those who have gotten a good look at him say he’s dressed in a mariachi suit without a hat. He hovers slightly above the ground and slumps like the weight of his past is on his shoulders. His most distinct feature, however, is his face. He always wears a sorrowful expression. He has wide, whited-out eyes, a small trail of blood seeping from his mouth, and tears always streaming down his face.

These are no ordinary tears and you’ll find that out if you meet him face-to-face. But this is one spirit you never want to see up close. If you do, you won’t walk away with your life. If you’ve ever harmed a child, in any way, he’ll be able to sense it. He’ll appear right before your eyes. You won’t be able to move or speak. You’ll only fall into a trance-like state as he stares into your soul. He judges your misdeeds and collects his tears in a glass. The worse your crimes, the bigger the glass. He’ll hand it to you and you’ll be forced to take it. You’ll drink it, you have no choice, then immediately collapse. You see, the tears are poison and he uses them to punish the worst people he finds.

So, if you ever see this ghost, you’d better hope it’s at a distance. If you’re lucky, you might hear him play his ghostly songs. But, you’d better hope you never meet him up close, because if you do, you deserve it.

[-]

“That’s dumb,” said Rosa, scrolling through her phone.

“What?” Abel’s face fell. He told this story with the intention of creeping out his younger cousin and little sister. Instead, Miguel looked wide-eyed with wonder and Rosa was just flat-out unimpressed.

“I said that’s dumb. There can’t have been a ghost there for a hundred years.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Buenavista Station was demolished in 1958 and rebuilt in 1961.” She held up her phone, showing off the Wikipedia page. “Where was the ghost when it was torn down?”

“I don’t know,” Abel groaned, rolling his eyes. “Probably wandering around the spot where the station used to be. Have you been fact checking my story this whole time?”

“Yup.” She brought up another page about Mexico City urban legends. “Plus, the first sighting of the ghost was in 1921. That’s 96 years ago, not 100.”

“Close enough,” Abel argued.

“And where does he get the glass from? And how can he have a different size for everyone he kills?”

“He’s a ghost. He can do stuff like that.”

As his cousins bickered, Miguel let his mind wander. He tapped his fingers on the courtyard table and hoped Abuelita Elena wouldn’t think it sounded too much like a rhythm. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard about the Musician with Poison Tears. It was one of his favorite ghost stories. He used to sneak peaks at his mom’s Ghosts of X-Place books when he was little, even though they always gave him nightmares. He first found the Musician with Poison Tears in a book called Legendary Ghosts of Mexico City and this was one ghost that never scared him. It had a mysterious past, played music, and killed bad guys. It almost sounded like a creepy version of a hero in an Ernesto de la Cruz movie.

“Hey,” he heard his abuelita shout from the kitchen window. He immediately stopped drumming the table. She was always so strict about the music ban to the point where she yelled at strangers on the street if they happened to be humming a tune while passing by. He shuddered to think how she’d react to the make-shift guitar he had hidden in the attic. “Did I hear you say the word ‘musician?’” she shouted at Abel.

“Yeah, but I’m talking about an unholy ghost musician who haunts a train station with its devil music,” Abel answered. Being the older and more experienced cousin, he knew just what to say to appease Abuelita Elena.

“Oh, alright,” she shrugged. “Just don’t fill these kids’ heads with any ideas.” Satisfied, she closed the window.

“As I was saying,” Rosa apparently continued, “there’s no way to prove that anyone’s been killed by ghost poison. People have heart attacks, and strokes, and aneurisms. It happens all the time. And in an old and busy place like that, then it’s bound to happen there too.”

“What about that serial killer from a few years ago?” Abel retorted. “He collapsed onto the tracks and got hit by a train. Then, after he died, they found all those kids’ bodies buried under his house.”

“Sometimes bad people get what’s coming to them,” Rosa argued. “Doesn’t mean it’s a ghost.”

“What is this?” Louisa marched up to them with her mom-face on. “Why are you kids talking about this stuff? You’ll give yourselves nightmares.” She patted Miguel on the head as if to say you’ll give my son nightmares.

“Mama, I’m twelve. I can handle it,” Miguel groaned. He folded his arms on the table, dropped his face into them, and sulked. He hadn’t had a nightmare about ghost stories in years, but his mother still insisted on treating him like a baby. _Geez, most Disney movies have murder in them, not that I’m technically allowed to watch them._ He had at friends’ houses, but his family didn’t need to know that. _The murder’s not the problem, but god forbid I see cartoon characters perform a musical number._

Miguel lifted his head enough to rest his chin on his forearm and absentmindedly listened to Rosa and Abel argue about the scientific improbability of the existence of ghosts. Miguel silently hoped they were real. Part of him wanted to meet the musician. He didn’t want to get poisoned, of course, but he just wanted to find out who the ghost was. What was he doing in a train station? Why did he want to protect kids so much? And why was he always crying?

Of course, if he could prove this ghost was real, it would mean other ghosts were real. Miguel read on an Ernesto de la Cruz fansite that some people who visited the theater where he died could still hear his ghost holding his last note. No one’s claimed to have seen the ghost yet, unlike the Musician with Poison Tears, but if Miguel could see that ghost for himself, maybe he could find the ghost of Ernesto de la Cruz too.


	2. Chapter 2

Miguel placed his song book in his suitcase, did a quick mental check to make sure he had everything, and closed the lid. He and his cousins Rosa and Abel were going to Mexico City for a week. They were staying with Miguel’s grandparents on his mother’s side to supposedly spend time together. Miguel, however, had an ulterior motive. He placed the suitcase on the floor and grabbed his guitar case next. He opened it up just to take one more peek at the instrument. He bought it when he was fifteen with his own money. He needed a new one after Abuelita found and subsequently smashed the one crafted himself. He saved up shoeshine money and birthday gifts for 3 years. It wasn’t the flashiest or most expensive guitar, but he loved it because it was his. He managed to keep this one hidden better, but it was eventually found. At least Abuelita didn’t smash it. She respected the work and savings he put into earning it too much. Instead, she demanded he sell it. He never did. He took it to a friend’s house, asked that he keep it until the heat died down, then snuck it back in. It wasn’t until a week ago that he revealed he still had it.

He was 18 now, and a fresh graduate from preparatoria. The day after his graduation, he announced that, not only was he accepted into the Conservatorio Nacional de Musica, but he was also the recipient of the Ernesto de la Cruz Memorial Scholarship given out by the de la Cruz estate to one talented aspiring musician every year. He’d expected a fight, in fact he prepared for a fight. He even made notecards for himself so that he could rehearse every logical argument he had about why they should support his musical dream. Of course it snowballed into a knock-down-drag-out the likes of which the Rivera household hadn’t seen since 1932 when Mama Coco was caught dancing in the Plaza with a strange boy. Said strange boy eventually grew up to be her husband, but that was beside the point.

It was a battle of the generations. Miguel vs Abuelita, Papa Franco, and his parents. His aunts and uncle didn’t say much, but it was obvious by their disapproving stares whose side they were on. Rosa and Abel both tried to back Miguel up. Abel argued that Miguel was exceptionally talented and should be encouraged. Rosa argued that being a musician didn’t necessarily mean abandoning your family. She then rattled off a list of famous musicians who were close with their families and never had a single scandal. “Besides,” she added, “he sucks at making shoes anyway.” However, they backed off when it came to light that they aided in Miguel’s covert auditions.

Both learned about Miguel’s musical talent years earlier having separately come across him practicing in secret. Abel’s reaction basically amounted to “That’s so cool. Where did you learn to do that? What do you mean you taught yourself? Show me!” Rosa didn’t say anything, but gave him a withering stare. He was sure it was all over and avoided the rest of his family for most of the day. It wasn’t until he reluctantly sat down for dinner and received nothing but the usual “Why don’t you eat more? This is why you’re so skinny” chides from Abuelita that he realized he was not about to be killed. When he asked Rosa about it later, she admitted that, while she disapproved of him directly disobeying the familial laws, (God, why did she always have to talk like a lawyer?) she did respect the obvious hard work he put into his craft. Over the next few years, the two of them became the only members of his family he could play for and get feedback from. Finally, when Miguel told them he wanted to audition to study music, they concocted a plan. They told their family that they were going on a “cousins’ weekend,” borrowed the truck, and drove up to Mexico City. He managed to schedule his auditions for both the Conservatorio and the de la Cruz people in the same whirlwind weekend. When they got home, their family was non-the-wiser.

The fight boiled over when Abuelita threated to smash the guitar just like she had the last one. Miguel blocked her way and told her it wasn’t there. As a forethought, he hid it at a friend’s house again, so she couldn’t get at it if it got to that point. He refused to tell her where it was. Everyone became angrier with him and started shouting at the same time. He couldn’t remember what set him off, but he finally shouted back “Maybe great-great grandfather was right to leave!”

The family stopped all at once. Stunned silence suffocated the air. His mother couldn’t look at him. His father demanded he apologize immediately. Worst of all was Abuelita. The hurt in her face was clear. She couldn’t even muster the strength to take off her shoe. Miguel had never seen her like this. She only let out a defeated breath and walked out of the room. She hasn’t spoken to him since.

Miguel shut the guitar case and set it down by the dresser. When he straightened up, he paused to look at the picture he kept on top. It was a photo of himself and Mama Coco taken on her 99th and final birthday. He crouched by her wheelchair, and showed off his dimple while Mama Coco beamed in her pink party hat. Right next to it, he kept the last gift he ever received from her. She died before she could give it to him. She passed away a week before his 13th birthday and they found the gift while they sorted through her things. It was a small rectangle carefully wrapped in red paper with a little yellow bow on top. A card displaying his name in her shaky handwriting proved it was his. He never opened it and he never planned to.

“Mama Coco, I messed up real bad,” he admitted to the picture. “I know they don’t want me to be a musician but it’s my life. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I love to do. Why can’t they just accept that?” Miguel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Still, I shouldn’t have said that to Abuelita. I took it too far. I know, I know. I need to apologize, even if she disapproves.” _But she could also stand to apologize to me._

Miguel picked up his bags and headed out the door. His parents stood in the hallway waiting for him. “All packed?” his mother asked, all the usual joy and nurturing gone from her voice. The tension still lingered from the fight the week before. She pulled him into the most impersonal hug a mother could give, which is to say, not all that impersonal, but still had an underlying discomfort to it.

“You, uh, have a safe trip,” his father said, patting him on the back. “And try to talk to your Abuelita before you leave.”

Miguel nodded and shuffled down the hallway to the living room. He could hear Abuelita’s favorite telenovela on the tv. When he peaked his head in, he saw her watching with the same sour look on her face she wore all week. He set his bags down by the door, took a long, deep breath, and stepped in with all the ease and eagerness of a man about to face a firing squad. “Abuelita,” he called, as he tip-toed up to her chair. “Abuelita, no one’s been telling me to eat all week. I think I got even skinnier…” She shifted her head just enough to give him the tiniest glance, then went back to her program. Miguel sighed and approached her. He knelt down beside her recliner the way a peasant knelt before his queen. “I’m leaving, Abuelita. I’ll be gone for a week. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Her eyes slid in his direction, but she said nothing.

“I know you’re still mad about the whole musician thing, but it’ll be okay. I’ll be home all the time, you’ll see… except when class is in session, then I’ll be staying with Abuela Josephina and Abuelo Roberto. You know, Mama’s parents?” She gave him back a blank stare. “Come on, you know them. You kick Papa Roberto’s ass at poker every Christmas? They may not be in Santa Cecilia, but they’re still family.”

She gave him the slightest turn of her head.

Miguel let out a breath. He was all out of words for her. He knew what she wanted. She wanted him to throw out his guitar, forfeit his acceptance to the Conservatorio and the scholarship, and apologize for ever considering becoming a musician in the first place. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. He worked too hard for those things. Why couldn’t she at least respect the work he put in like Rosa had? Why couldn’t she just support him?

Still, he didn’t want to leave her on a bad note. Fortunately, he had another trick up his sleeve. “I know what’ll cheer you up,” he said, taking off his own boot. She looked over, apparently curious about what he was about to do next. Well, here goes nothing. One… two… On the mental count of thee, he smacked himself in the face with his own boot. As he looked up and rubbed his sore cheek, he saw Abuelita forcing her lips closed, defiantly holding back a snicker. “Careful Abuelita, you almost smiled there.” He hazarded a kiss on the cheek and got out unscathed. “I’ll be back in a week. I promise.” With that, he got up and headed out the door.

His next stop was the courtyard where his baby sister, Coco, was furiously at work with her crayons. He announced his presence by picking up a spare piece of paper and placing it on her head. She reached up when she felt the impromptu hat land on her head and turned to see her brother standing behind her. “Miguel!” she gasped, throwing herself onto her artwork. “Don’t look! It’s not ready!”

“Aw, Coco, are you making that for me?” he asked, leaning in to sneak a peek.

“I said don’t look!”

“Sorry.” He turned away and used his hand to shield his eyes. He waited patiently and listened to the sound of crayon scribbling against the paper until she announced that it was done. He turned back to see her proudly holding her crayon magnum opus. “It’s beautiful,” he said, taking it gingerly in his hands. “Another masterpiece. It belongs in the Lourve.”

“That’s you and that’s me,” she said, pointing at the two humanoid figures. The shorter one had her trademark pigtails and the taller one had his shaggy hair and soul patch. Her little finger moved up to a smiling yellow ball in the corner. “And the sun is happy because you’re home.” Her face suddenly fell and she sunk down on the bench. “You’re not leaving forever, are you?”

“Oh, Coco no.” He set aside his bags, placed the drawing back on the table, and scooped Coco onto his lap. “I’m just going on a trip with Rosa and Abel for a week. We’re staying with Mama Josephina and Papa Roberto. I’ll be back soon.”

“But I heard Abuelita arguing with Mama and Papa. They said…”

“Never mind what they said. There’s no reason I can’t be a musician and see you all the time. Plenty of other people do it.”

“But when you’re at music school, you won’t be here,” she sulked.

“No, but how about this?” He shifted Coco so that she could see his face better. “When I get my class schedule, you and I will pick out a time that we can have a FaceTime date. Would you like that?”

“I guess,” she mumbled as she flopped bonelessly against his chest. “It won’t be the same.”

“No, it won’t be exactly the same,” he conceded, “but you’ll still see me all the time, I promise.”

Coco hardened her face and, for a second there, looked just like Abuelita laying down the lay. “You’d better.”

“Anything you say.” He heard Abel firing up the truck and placed Coco back on the bench. “I’ve got to go now. Hug for the road?” He held out his arms and she flung herself into them. “I’ll be back soon, Coco. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

He set Coco down and headed out to Abel’s truck. Rosa was already in the passenger seat, so Miguel threw his suitcase in the truck bed and climbed in the back. “Still planning on writing that ghost song?” Abel asked, spotting the guitar case by Miguel’s side in the rearview.

“Yup,” he chirped, fastening his seatbelt.

“You’re really gonna spend a good chunk of this vacation ghost hunting in a train station?” Rosa rolled her eyes, but Miguel paid her no mind.

“Sure am.” He’d let it slip earlier that he wanted to visit Buenevista Station. People might think it’s crazy to go on a trip to a train station, but Miguel had his reasons. That train station housed the legendary Musician with Poison Tears. The spirit was Miguel’s life-long obsession, apart from Ernesto de la Cruz that is. He wanted to see it for himself. He felt a formless song churning in the back of his mind. He wanted to write it, needed to write it. There was something stuck in his brain and he needed to get it out.

Rosa sighed and shook her head. She never did get on board with the whole ghosts-existing belief. Abel gave one last wave goodbye to the family and pulled the truck away. No radio. Just because Miguel openly defied the music ban didn’t meant anyone else was up to the task.

Miguel rolled down his window and let the wind blast him in the face. At least it was something other than silence. He felt a beat in him from the roll of the truck and he tapped it out on his guitar case. Now that they brought it up, he couldn’t stop thinking about the ghost at the station. Like all urban legends, very little was known about who the spirit was in life. But scraps of the story helped paint the picture. It played an invisible guitar, so it must have been a musician. It had poison tears, so most people assume it died by poison as well. It kept trying to board trains, so it was trying to go somewhere. And lastly, it poisoned child abusers, so it fiercely protected children. Who was this ghost? Why was he stuck there? And why was he so protective of children?

Miguel wanted to see the ghost up close. He wanted to get closer than anyone had before. Most of all, he hoped observing the ghost, what it looked like, where it went, how it acted, would give him some clues as to the ghost’s past. He thought, if he could learn just a little bit more about the ghost, he could finally get this nagging song out of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Miguel was possibly the most excited person to ever set foot in a train station without any intention of catching a train. He’d spent the morning with his family, like he promised, then headed straight for the train station. Admittedly, he’d spent breakfast fidgety with anticipation. The main draw at the moment was of course the ghost, but Rosa made Miguel swear that he’d spend some time with his family on the trip and not just ditch everyone to go ghost hunting. She made him put his hand on a bible and everything. Well, he checked family bonding off the list this morning and was ready to start his search.

He looked around at the gray walls, tried not to get in the way of people actually trying to go places, and wondered how long it would take him to find the ghost. He stopped by a wall where he hoped he’d be out of the way and strained his ears to listen for the ghostly guitar. He heard the bustling and chatting of the people around him, but no music. Well, maybe he’s just not playing right now. He got off the wall and wandered away wondering where the Musician with Poison Tears might be. _Maybe he’s trying to catch a train._ He’d read on urban legend websites and in ghost books that some people watched the spirit float on board a train with the flow of commuters, only to be left behind on the tracks, the train having passed through him. Of course, to see this for himself, he’d need to buy a ticket to get past the turns dials. But then, the cheapest ticket only cost 5 pesos and that was well worth the expense to finally see the legend.

He got in line at the ticket counter and glanced around at the other people near him. He spotted a college-age student wearing a university t-shirt and felt a pang of excitement in his stomach. He’d be one of them soon. He could see himself now, catching the metro to get to class, guitar slung on his back and the conservatorio’s logo worn proudly on his chest. He’d spent hours scrolling through the conservatorio’s website, looking at pictures of the campus and reading program descriptions over and over. He imagined himself sitting on a set of stone steps in the courtyard, practicing with other students and talking about music theory. He could practically hear his guitar playing now…

Wait a second…there was a guitar playing. Miguel snapped out of his fantasies and looked for the source of the sound. He got out of line and followed the music to a staircase at the other end of the building. From far away, he spotted the ghost. It took him a second. The ghost just looked like a thin man at first. He wore a mariachi suit but no hat, just like in the legend. He had shaggy dark hair and a goatee on his chin. His eyes were closed and its face was set in a quiet, contemplative expression. The most telling feature to his ghosthood was the thin haze of light which surrounded his body.

The music became clearer as Miguel drew closer. He read that if you got to close to the ghost, it would vanish. He crept up very carefully thinking if he didn’t startle the ghost, it might stay. As he drew nearer, he could make out the ghost’s position. He hunched over slightly. One hand strummed at nothing while another reached out and fingered invisible strings. Miguel recognized the hand motions as they coaxed music from thin air. He was able to identify the song too. It was a slower cover of Ernesto de la Cruz’s most famous song. Miguel couldn’t help but smirk to himself. Even ghosts were de la Cruz fans.

He made his way over inch by inch until finally, he stood directly in front of the ghost. From here, he could see the tears streaming down the ghost’s face as it played. He also noted the faint scent of tequila coming from somewhere. He watched for a while, unsure if he should move or speak. He was so close and he didn’t want to scare the ghost off. He waited, holding his breath while the ghost continued to play his song and noted how he could still see the stairs through the ghost’s head.

The ghost slowly opened his eyes, showing their blank white color, then started when he saw Miguel standing directly in front of him. He stopped his song and Miguel froze, afraid that any movement might scare the ghost into disappearing. That didn’t happen. Instead the ghost leaned in to get a better look at Miguel’s face, then leaned back to study him. He snapped his transparent fingers and waved a hand in front of Miguel. Somewhere behind him, Miguel heard, “Hey, hey, Chico? Can you see me?”

Miguel looked around for the source of the voice as he didn’t see the ghost move its lips. “Chico? Chico, right in front of you,” the voice said again.

He looked blankly back at the ghost, thinking he was mistaken. Maybe, if he looked carefully, he’d see the ghost’s lips move again. Instead, the ghost just shrugged and he heard, “Eh, guess not,” before the ghost when back to playing its song.

That’s when Miguel realized, the voice wasn’t coming from behind him, but from the back of his mind. “Wait, wait, I can see you,” Miguel rushed out, afraid the ghost might retreat.

The ghost stopped again and looked questioningly at Miguel. “You sure, Chico?

“Yeah, I’m sure. But…is that you? Are you the one talking in my head?” He hoped no one overheard that. Hearing voices in your head generally wasn’t a good sign.

“Si.” A half-smile formed on the ghost’s still-closed lips. “I’m glad that worked. I’ve never had the chance to try before.”

“What do you mean?” Miguel asked.

“Sometimes I’ll catch people looking at me, and they’ll come over, but once they get up close, they look around like I vanished. But I didn’t. I’m always right wherever I was. I think they can’t see me up close.”

“Oh…” His eyes darted around. He wondered if other people could see him talking to the ghost or if he just looked like he was talking to an empty stairwell. “Mind if I get in there?” He thought it was best to try to hide rather than risk awkward stares.

“Just go through me,” the ghost answered dismissively. “Everyone else does.”

“Okay…” Miguel stepped gingerly around the ghost, trying his best to keep the amount of phasing through to a minimum. Sure, the ghost was apparently okay with it, but it still felt wrong to just step through a person’s head. “But, you really are him, aren’t you? You’re the Musician with Poison Tears?”

“Is that what they call me?” the ghost asked.

“You didn’t know?”

The ghost shrugged. “You’re the first person I’ve talk to in over a century.”

“Damn, sounds lonely.” Miguel sat down on the steps behind the ghost as if blown back. A century? A century with no contact with anyone? How’d the ghost, for lack of better term, survive?

“Yeah…” A shadow passed over the ghost’s face, but disappeared just as quickly. “Eh, it’s not so bad.” The ghost smiled and plucked a few notes out of his invisible guitar. “There’s always people around and I’m pretty good at keeping myself company.”

“Wait, how am I the only person you’ve talked to? What about all those child abusers? The ones you poisoned?”

The ghost’s smile faltered and he slowly shook his head. “I don’t talk. I look into their soul and show it to them.”

“Did you look into my soul?”

The ghost narrowed his eyes and looked intently at Miguel. “…You fought with your family recently…”

Miguel jumped back and pressed against the stairs behind him. “Are you going to poison me for that?”

The ghost’s face immediately softened and he put on a reassuring smile. “No. Don’t worry, Chico. Families argue from time to time. It happens to everyone. Besides,” he gave Miguel the same intent look, “you are so sweet to your little sister.”

Miguel relaxed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah well, Coco is pretty cute.”

The ghost’s eyes flung wide open. He looked off into the distance like he’d been entranced. “Coco…”

“Huh?” Miguel snapped his fingers in the ghost’s face. “You okay?” He wasn’t sure how odd this behavior was for a ghost. Maybe it was just a thing ghosts did, but it still creeped him out. And what did his little sister have to do with it?

The ghost blinked a few times and shook his head. “Yes, I…” He placed a hand on his forehead and rubbed it like he had a headache. “I think I almost remembered something. It’s gone now.”

“You don’t remember your past?” Miguel asked. This ghost is even more mysterious than I thought.

The ghost rubbed his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, apparently putting all his mental effort in remembering. “I think that I used to,” he said with a sigh as he gave up and leaned his back against the wall.

“What happened?”

He only shrugged. “The train station was torn down for a few years and I was gone. When it came back, so did I.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Nowhere.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

Miguel was taken aback by this. Did the ghost just blink out of existence for a few years? “But… but how…”

“Lo siento, where are my manners?” The ghost jumped up and slapped a smile on his face. “I never got your name, Chico.”

“Oh, I’m Miguel.” He reached out to shake the ghost’s hand but phased right through it. “And yours?”

The ghost simply drew his hand back and shook his head.

“You don’t know that either…”

“I know I had one,” the ghost shrugged.

Miguel had to pause for a moment. He could hardly imagine what it must be like for this ghost. He had no one to talk to, nowhere to go, and nothing to hang onto, not even memories to look back on. He didn’t even know his own name. No wonder the ghost cried all the time. What must it be like to truly have nothing?

He wanted to say something to the ghost. He searched his brain for comforting words, but found none. This ghost spent the last century completely alone. Miguel need to find something, anything to say. “I…I can’t… your life… or I guess your death… this whole time, you’ve been… do you know anything about yourself?”

“Only this,” the ghost answered, “I want to go home.”

“And where is home?” This was good. If the ghost knew his home, Miguel had a starting point to figure out who the ghost was. Maybe then, the ghost could finally rest. _And my song. I could finally write my song._

Miguel’s hopes were dashed when the ghost looked down and simply said, “Not here.”

“But-but you must know something, right? You must come from somewhere. There must be-”

“Hey!” A security lady appeared at the bottom of the stairwell. “Hey, kid.”

Miguel immediately bristled. Kid? People always assumed he was a few years younger than he actually was. He cursed the cherub cheeks his Abuelita loved so much. I _can vote lady, and drink. I can go to the nearest bar and order 5 shots of that tequila I keep smelling if I want._ That reminded him, where was that tequila smell coming from?

“Kid, who you talking to?”

“My mom.” He whipped his phone out of his pocket and slapped it against the side of his head. “Yeah, okay mom. I gotta go. The security lady wants to talk to me. Love you too, bye.” He put his phone down and the security officer raised an eyebrow.

“If that was your mom, why was your phone still in your pocket?”

“I had her on speaker phone…in my pocket.” The security officer looked unconvinced. “Did I do something illegal?” he asked.

The security officer took a second to think before answering. “I don’t think so…”

“Well, while we’re in this legal gray area, can I keep doing it?”

The security officer rolled her eyes and stepped away. “Just move along, kid, and stop being weird. People use those stairs, you know?”

Miguel sighed and turned his attention back to the ghost. “I’m sorry, I should probably go,” he whispered so the security officer wouldn’t hear.

The ghost gave a disappointed shrug and put his hands around his invisible guitar again. “Esta bien. I don’t want to get you in trouble. It was nice having someone to talk to for a change, though.”

“Don’t worry, I’m coming back tomorrow,” Miguel said, standing up.

The ghost’s face slowly brightened and he got a glint of hope in his eye. “Really?”

“Yeah, I came here to meet you and learn more about you. You see, I’m a musician too and, it might sound crazy, but I feel like I’m meant to write a song about you, you know? Tell your story.”

The ghost looked up with wide, bright white eyes. He bit the inside of his cheek, presumably to keep it his mouth from falling open. “I-if you insist, Chico…” He paused and looked off to the side as if contemplating something. He looked back at Miguel and cautiously asked, “Amigo?”

Miguel was struck by how much this century-old ghost looked like a lost child. His heart broke. This poor soul, probably just a normal, nice guy in life was doomed to decades of abject solitude and jumped at the chance to befriend the first person he spoke to. He knew it was up to him now. He had to help this ghost. No one deserved to be so alone for so long. He never before saw someone so in need of a friend. Miguel stepped down the stairs and turned to the ghost, a warm smile on his face. “Right, see you tomorrow, Amigo.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You sure you have it?”

                “I’ve got it right here, Coco,” Miguel said, holding up her drawing to the camera. He’d managed to prop his phone up on the dresser so that he could play for his baby sister while FaceTiming. “Want to hear a song?” he asked, putting down the picture and picking up his guitar.

                “Abuelita says no music,” she said with all the authority a 6-year-old could muster.

                “It’s just one little song, Coco. You’ll like it.”

                Coco looked ready to say yes, but then glanced off-camera and shook her head. He guessed someone else was in the room with her. This was stupid. Why couldn’t he sing just one song to his baby sister? Who was it hurting?

                “Did you take my picture to the train station with you?” she asked.

                “No, I kept it here so I couldn’t lose it,” Miguel answered.

                She got a wide, panicked look in her eyes. “But-but you have to keep with you! It’s supposed to keep you safe so you’ll come home!”

                “I’m going to come home, Coco. Don’t worry.”

                “But what about the ghost?”     

                “I talked to the ghost.” Miguel laughed and gave her a reassuring smile. “The ghost is nice. I’m going back to see him tomorrow. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll take it with me tomorrow, okay?”

                “Coco, say good night. It’s time for bed,” he heard his mother call from off screen.

                “Good night,” Coco blew him a kiss. “And don’t forget my picture tomorrow.”

                “I won’t. Good night.”

                “Don’t hang up,” his mother added. “I want to talk to him too.” There was a swirl of images as the phone changed hands and his mother’s face appeared on the screen. “How’s your trip sweetie?”

                He wasn’t sure how to answer. If he told her it was going great, he thought she might take it to mean ‘being away from my family is great’, but if he told her it was going bad, she might get her hopes up that he won’t want to go to school there. He finally settled on “Pretty good.”

                “Are you spending time with Mama and Papa?” she asked.

                “Yeah, we went out to breakfast this morning and I watched the fútball game with Abuelito & Abel after dinner.”

                “How’s your ghost hunting?”

                Miguel laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

                “Alright,” she said with a smile, “just don’t get carried away with it and forget to spend time with your family.”

                “I won’t forget.” An awkward silence took hold of them and Miguel rubbed his left arm. “Is Abuelita Elena still angry?” he finally asked.

                “She just needs time Miguel.”

                “It’s so stupid!” he burst out. “It’s just music. How am I hurting anybody?”

                “Miguel…”

                “Mom, you didn’t grow up with music ban. I know. Rosa found your Selena tapes in your old room. Why are you mad about it?”

                His mother sighed and put on her best I’m-not-mad-I’m-disappointed face. “It’s not about the music, Miguel. I’m upset with how you disrespected Abuelita and went behind everyone’s backs.”

                “What was I supposed to do?” he complained. “She already smashed one guitar. It’s not like I could just come out and say I wanted to be a musician.” He was so tired of defending himself. He had to lie. He had no other choice. Why didn’t anyone get it? _None of it would have happened if it weren’t for the stupid music ban. Why is this all my fault?_

                “Fair enough,” his mother conceded, “but what you said really hurt her.”

                “I tried to make up. She wouldn’t listen.”

                “Did you say you were sorry? Or did you just joke around?”

                Miguel tucked his lips in and looked off to the side.

                “That’s what I thought.”

                “She could stand to apologize to me, you know,” he pointed out.            

                His mother put on a sly smirk. “If you have such a problem with the way Abuelita does things, why are you acting just like her?”

                Miguel kept his tight-lipped expression but said nothing. He couldn’t honestly even tell himself it wasn’t true.

                “I’ve got to go put Coco to bed. Goodnight, m’ijo. Don’t stay up too late. I’ll see you when you get back. Love you.”

                “Love you too, Máma. ‘Night.”

                [-]

                The next morning, Miguel arrived at the train station ready to help the ghost any way he could. Only problem was, he didn’t know what that meant. He had no plan except to talk and try to get to know the ghost. It seemed to do some good last time. Just mentioning his family gave the ghost a flash of memory. At the very least, he could keep the ghost from getting too lonely.

                Miguel barely took 2 steps into the train station before he heard his own name ringing in the back of his mind. “Miguel!”

                He looked around and saw the ghost floating by the same stairwell they met at the day before. The ghost smiled and excitedly waved an arm so that Miguel would see him. If it weren’t for the spectral transparency, Miguel wasn’t sure he’d have recognized the ghost. The ghost was so much more, well, lively today. A pain went through Miguel’s chest when he realized that he was the first thing in a hundred years the ghost could look forward to.

                “I waited in the same spot so that you would find me,” the ghost said once Miguel made it to the stairs. “You never said what time you were coming, but I didn’t expect you to be here so early. Wait, you had breakfast, didn’t you?”

                Miguel nodded at the question and he sniffed the air. There it was again, the strong scent of tequila. Was someone drinking this early? Or still drunk from last night? Or… Miguel leaned into the ghost and sniffed again. _Yup, definitely stronger_.

                “Why do you keep doing that?” the ghost asked, leaning back a little.

                “I keep smelling tequila and I think…” he took another whiff, “…I think it’s coming from you.”

                The ghost’s face fell and his lips stiffened into a hard line. “Chico, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to in over a century. You think I can order a drink?”

                “No but I keep smelling it when I’m around you. Wait, I think it might be your tears.”

                “What?”

                “The legends say you poison people with a shot glass of your tears. That might be it.”

                The ghost gave Miguel a questioning look, then dipped his finger in the tears streaming down his face. He dragged the finger to the corner of his lips and popped it in without opening his mouth. When he got a good enough taste, he covered his mouth and laughed. “Dios mio, it is tequila. After all these years, who’d have guessed?”

                “Didn’t you ever notice?”

                “How often do you taste your tears, Chico?”

                “I guess that’s a fair point,” Miguel said, taking a seat on the steps. “You think maybe that’s how you died? From poison tequila?”

                The ghost shrugged. “I don’t remember how I died, so it’s possible.”

                Migel nodded and nervously rubbed his hands together. He had so many questions for the ghost. What’s floating like? Does it hurt to phase through stuff? Or does it just tickle? Do ghosts still sleep? What was it like watching technology change? He had them all in his head, and came prepared to ask them, but now that he was here, looking the poor guy in the face, they all seemed so dumb, and kind of rude. This ghost was a person with a whole life, even if he didn’t remember it. Miguel wanted to as him something deep and meaningful. Instead he blurted out, “So, um, how come you always keep your mouth closed?”

                The ghost tightened his lips. “I don’t want to frighten you.”

                “Frighten me?” Miguel laughed, “I came back to chat with a ghost. I’m not scared. You can show me.”

                The ghost shifted his lips to the side, clearly debating in his head. He gave Miguel a look as if to say ‘you asked for it,’ and opened his mouth. A river of blood poured out. The blood flowed down to the ghost’s feet in a seemingly endless stream, but disappeared before it reached the floor. Miguel could only watch in shock as this mostly-chill ghost became the stuff of nightmares. 

                “Okay,” he eventually squeaked out. “I see your point.

                The ghost closed his mouth and the river came to an abrupt stop. The blood disappeared without leaving a trace on the ghost’s clothes or lips. Only the usual thin stream tricked out of the corner of his mouth.

                _I guess that’s one perk to being a ghost,_ Miguel thought, _easy clean-up._ “So, uh, does it feel weird holding all that stuff in your mouth?”

                “I don’t feel much of anything,” the ghost said, shrugging the question off. “Not physically anyway.”

                “But you still have emotions though, right?” It felt like a stupid question. Of course the ghost had feelings. Miguel could see them written all over his face.

                “Well, yeah,” the ghost answered with a small smile. “I felt happy to see you this morning.”

                “What about those child abusers you killed?” Miguel blurted out. “Do you just get so mad you can’t help it?”

                The ghost’s face dropped and somehow drained what little color he had. “That’s, uh, hard to explain…”

                “Tell me,” Miguel insisted. “I want to know how it happens.”

                The ghost cast his eyes downward. His shoulders slumped and he looked like he might collapse in on himself. “It’s not something I like to think about. When it happens…it’s like I feel a signal go off inside my head. I can somehow sense who the signal is about and I’m drawn to them, like I’m in a trance. I appear before them and they freeze while I look into their soul. I see the things that they’ve done…” The ghost sighed and buried his face in his hands. “You don’t want to see what I’ve seen, Miguel. When I see a child in pain, pain that they caused…” His hands dropped to his side and closed into shaking fists. “I show it to them.  The tears come harder. A glass appears and collects them. Then they take the glass and they drink it because they know they’re guilty.” He clenched his fists tight, then let go of the tension. His body slumped forward like his energy was drained out of him. “I wish I could do better. I wish I could do more to help, but I’m so limited here.”

                “So, you don’t do it by choice?”

                The ghost shook his head. “It’s been so long, I can’t remember. I don’t know if I’m just a conduit for something more powerful or if I’ve just done it so many times it’s become second nature.”

                The ghost went quiet and Miguel regretted asking. Obviously it’d be a sore subject for him. Most people don’t want to be killers and it sounded like the ghost might not even have a choice, like he had an uncontrollable ghost power. Miguel hoped at least his company would cheer the ghost up some, but all he succeed in doing was making the poor guy relive other people’s terrible memories. He decided not to ask any more of the obvious questions. If they were important, they’d come out in time.

                “I hope you don’t have more questions about how ghosts work, Miguel, because I don’t have many answers,” The ghost tried for a wry smile, but it looked so out of place with his sad eyes. “I _am_ a ghost and I don’t understand half of what I can do.”

                “I can help you,” Miguel said, jumping up. Finally, he figured out something he could do for this poor soul. “I can help you figure out who you are and why you’re here.”

                “Like how?”

                “Well, you’re stuck here, but I can go investigate other places and look things up for you,” he answered, ideas racing in his head. “My cousin Rosa’s really good at research, so she can help me. And if we don’t figure it out before I leave at the end of the week, we’ll keep going when I come back.”

                “What do you mean when you come back?” The ghost asked.

                “I’m taking classes in the city in the fall. I’m going to go to the Conservatorio to study music. I’ll take the train there every morning.”

                The ghost paused and crinkled his eyebrows. “Wait, how far are your class that you need to take an intercity train every morning? Why don’t you just live in the city where the classes are?”

                “Don’t you know? This is a metro station now.” Miguel explained. “The trains just go to different parts of Mexico City. I mean, the trains used to go all over the place from here, but train travel isn’t a huge thing anymore.”

                “So you’re saying, even if I could get on a train, I wouldn’t be able to take it home.”

                Miguel shook his head. “Afraid not.” He should have figured the ghost wouldn’t know this. Being stuck in the same place for a hundred years wouldn’t exactly help you keep up-to-date with modern travel.

                A humorless smile grew on the ghost’s face as he dropped down to the steps. He put one hand across his forehead and shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s so pathetic it’s funny or…”

                “Hey, we might not be able to get you on a train, but we’ll figure out some other way.” Miguel reached out to place a hand on the ghost’s shoulder, but it went straight through. “All the ghost books I’ve read say ghosts cross over once they resolve their unfinished business. Maybe, once we uncover your past, you’ll know why you wanted to go home so bad. Then you’ll cross over to the Land of the Dead and be at rest.”

                The ghost leaned his head on the back of his hand and looked up at Miguel. “Maybe, I hope you’re right Chico,” he said, though he didn’t seem too convinced.

                “Only thing is, I don’t know where to start,” Miguel admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

                “What’s that?” the ghost asked. Miguel looked down and saw the ghost pointing at a corner of yellow construction paper peeking out of his jacked pocket.

                “Oh, that’s just a drawing my sister made for me.” He took the picture out of his pocket and unfolded it. He held it out so the ghost could see and pointed at the two stick figures. “That’s me and that’s her.”

                The ghost looked intently at the picture. “What did you say your sister’s name was?”

                “Coco”

                The ghost’s eyes flashed white and he repeated, “Coco…”

                “What was that?” Miguel asked excitedly. “Did you just remember something?”

                “I think I had a little girl,” the ghost said, running his transparent finger over the Coco drawing’s hair. “She had braids, just like this.” The ghost’s eyes glowed as he stared, entranced by the picture. “Maybe it was a sister, or a niece…”  

                “A daughter?” Miguel suggested.

                The ghost tsked and shook his head. “I should hope I’d remember my own daughter. What kind of father would I be if I forgot?”

                “An amnesiac one?”

                “If I had a daughter, there was a mother too and I don’t remember her either.”

                “But you don’t remember your entire life,” Miguel reasoned. “You don’t even know your own name. It’s not your fault you forgot.”

                “Maybe…”

                “Hey, maybe that’s it,” Miguel said, getting excited. “You want to go home to see this girl you knew. Try to cross over.”

                The ghost closed his eyes and waited but nothing happened.  He opened his eyes and didn’t seem too surprised to still be stuck in the train station. “I don’t think it worked,” he said, looking at his still-transparent fingers.

                Miguel sat back down on the steps and rested his face in his palm. Obviously this would take some time. At least the little girl was a start. They still had to figure out who she was and how she fit into the ghost’s life, though Miguel had no idea how. Thank God he had his sister’s drawing to jog the ghost’s memory and… “Wait…” Miguel folded the drawing and put it back in his pocket. “Quick, do you remember her?”

                “Who, the girl?” The ghost asked.

                “Yes, what do you remember?”

                The ghost leaned his back against the wall and rubbed his eyes. “She…she’s about three or four…” His fingers moved to rest on his temples. “She’s got her hair in braids with bows, and she’s smiling at me…” The ghost paused, having come to a realization. Grinning, he popped up, floating high in the air. “I have a memory.” He swooped down to grab Miguel by the shoulders. His hands when right through, but that didn’t seem to matter to him. “Miguel, I have a memory!” he laughed.

                He floated up again, seemingly lighter than air. “I have a memory!” he declared. “I remember her. She was there. She was part of my life. And I loved her, I know I did. I can feel it in my heart. Miguel, I have a memory! A memory!”

                Miguel looked on with a smile of his own as the ghost celebrated with laughter, floating loops, and even a few gritos. _We can do this,_ he thought, watching the ghost’s first truly joyous moment in a century. _We will do this._ They’d find more memories and make them stick in the ghost’s mind. The unfinished business should reveal itself from there.

                In his jubilance, the ghost forgot himself, and let his mouth open a few times. Miguel couldn’t help but notice there was much less blood than before. _I will help him. I have to help him. After all, he is my friend._


	5. Chapter 5

“So, you actually _talked_ to the guy?”

“Yes,” Miguel explained for about the millionth time. He and Abel were sharing his uncle’s old bedroom and Abel asked him questions constantly. He apparently couldn’t get his head around it. Abel always like scary stories & movies, but lately he was getting into unsolved mystery/true crime/paranormal stuff. He didn’t really believe in the weirder things, but he says it’s just fun to imagine what-if. This ghost, however, he always liked to believe was real.

“What, exactly do you mean by ‘talked to him’?” Abel asked, pressing his hands together.

“Like, normal talking?” Miguel tried to explain, “Like we’re doing right now? Except, he doesn’t move his lips. You just sort of hear him in your brain.”

“Does that feel weird?”

“It did at first, but you get used to it.”

“Wow, I bet no one ever got up that close to him before.”

“He did say most people can’t see him once they get too close. Wait, how did you know that?”

“He’s a legendary ghost. He’s not just in those touristy books moms likes. Here, look.” Abel took his laptop out of his backpack and Miguel sat down on Abel’s bed to have a look. They looked up Musician with Poison Tears on the internet. The screen showed a long list of links to web pages, videos, and even fanfiction about the ghost.

“Wow, people ship him with Eyeless Jack?”

“Ugh, ignore Wattpad and look at this.” Abel clicked on an amateur sleuthing blog. “This guy did some pretty in-depth research on the subject.”

Abel passed the laptop to Miguel and he began clicking through. It was one of those websites with a black background, photo shopped banner, and white text in typewriter font. It reminded him of the Zodiac Killer website Abel showed him once. He clicked on the About Us tab and found that the website had a few different contributors, but the main author claimed to be a private investigator who researched cold cases in his spare time. That could be helpful if true but then this was the internet. For all they knew this was a bored 13 year old with too much time on his hands. But then again, Abel was usually pretty good about sniffing out hoaxes. Miguel kept looking.

The website had different tabs on the top with different subjects the author researched. They were mostly true crime and supernatural cases. The Musician with Poison Tears had a tab all his own. Miguel clicked on it and scrolled through the articles. Some of it was stuff he already found on his own: basic legend, notable sightings, possible victims of supernatural justice, that sort of thing. One article caught his attention. It was called Possible Identities.

It began by explaining that the identity of the ghost was unknown, that it usually disappeared before people could get a good look, blah, blah blah… It also included a grainy picture someone took from far away. It showed the ghost’s profile, but the only details that could be made out were shaggy black hair and a large nose. Miguel had seen this picture plenty of times before, but at least now he could verify that this was, in fact, the ghost. He could tell by the mariachi suit the ghost wore.

He scrolled down a bit more to find a list of profiles of possible identities. Most of them were missing persons or unidentified bodies reported in Mexico City around the time of the ghost’s appearance. Some of them included photos or police sketches. He scrolled past them pretty quick as none of them looked like his ghost friend. He was about to tell Abel this website wasn’t helping, but froze when he came to the last picture.

If it weren’t for the events of that morning, he might have scrolled right past it. It showed a young man in his late teens or early twenties. He was dressed in a shirt and jacket of the times. Miguel couldn’t tell eye color from the black & white photo, but the ghost had irises and pupils which was more than what he had now. The most prominent feature, however, was the grin. It showed off his dimples and brightened up the rest of his face. It both warmed and hurt Miguel’s heart at the same time. The ghost was once happy.

He read the description next to the picture.

_This man was found dead in an alley in Mexico City in 1921 only a few blocks from the train station. Age assumed to be somewhere between 18 and 30. His pockets contained this picture of himself, as well as the beginnings of a letter addressed to someone known as “mi amor.” He also held an empty tequila bottle in one hand. No one came forward to claim the body, despite the letter indicating he had loved ones. The police’s top theory is that he was rejected by his lover and accidently drank himself to death that night._

“This is him,” Miguel muttered, mostly to himself. It all fit. The year, the train station, the tequila… Not to mention the fact that the face was a perfect match. “Abel, it’s him!” He shouted, smacking his cousin in the shoulder.

“Really, you’re sure?”

“Yeah I’m sure,” Miguel said. “It looks just like him. Plus, look at the details. He was found near the train station. He died drinking tequila…” The only thing he wasn’t sure about was the lover. The ghost remembered a little girl, but didn’t mention a lover. He obviously had someone. He wouldn’t be writing to “mi amor” otherwise. But, if he had people in his life who he loved, why did no one come looking for him?

“What about the poison?”

They turned to see Rosa standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. They weren’t sure how long she’d been listening, but she obviously heard something.

“What do you mean?” Abel asked.

“What about the poison?” Rosa repeated, getting annoyed. “Don’t the legends say he was poisoned?”

“Could have been alcohol poisoning,” Abel answered.

“How would he poison his victims with one shot of tequila?”

“I don’t know. Ghost magic? He doesn’t really know himself,” Miguel said, getting irritated. “Why do you care, anyway? I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff.”

“I care about facts,” Rosa said, flopping down on the other bed. “If you’re really talking to a ghost, I want to see it.”

“Wait, can we meet him?” Abel asked. “I want to meet him too.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Miguel answered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m the first person who’s gotten close enough to talk to him in a century. I’m not sure you’ll be able to.”

Rosa rolled her eyes and marched over to them. “Cut the crap. You think you’re some sort of chosen one?”

“Well, I could be,” Miguel said, flashing a cheeky grin.

Rosa flicked him on the nose. “Fine, Harry Freakin’ Potter. If we can’t see him close up, we’ll just watch from far away.  Us lowly non-chosen can still see him a distance, right?”

“True, that is true,” Abel put in. “Hey, we can show him his picture. That might jog some memories.”

“There, it’s settled,” Rosa said, matter-of-fact. “We’re going to go with you and if we’re not special enough to see him up close, we’ll just hang behind and watch you talk.”

“I don’t get a choice, do I?” Miguel huffed.

Rosa put on a mischievous smirk. “You can choose how you’re going to say ‘yes.’ Use some word-play. Get creative.”

Miguel let out his best, deepest, most beleaguered sigh. “Fine.”

[-]

“Look, he’s not used to so much attention,” Miguel said as they walked into the train station that morning. He prefaced them the night before about how to talk to the ghost. Don’t stare, don’t ask obvious questions, try not to say anything rude about him being a ghost… Mostly, he didn’t want his cousins to scare the ghost away. “He’s a little shy. I don’t want to freak him out. Just hang back for a little bit, then I’ll wave you over.”

“Miguel!”

Miguel looked up while his cousins followed his gaze. The ghost grinned widely and waved his arm in their direction. 

“Yeah, he’s a real wallflower,” Rosa quipped.

“Just wait back here,” Miguel groaned, rolling his eyes. “At least let me introduce you.”

His cousins thankfully listened as he walked up to the ghost who, again, waited by the stairs. The ghost was possibly more excited to see him today than he was the day before. “Miguel!” He called when Miguel was still a few feet away. “Miguel, ever since yesterday I’ve been having more memories about the girl.”

“That’s great,” Miguel said, setting his backpack down on the stairs.

“Yeah, I remember her dancing with me on my shoes and catching fireflies… Oh! And I used to toss her in the air which her Mama did not like at all.”

“Wow, that amazing,” Miguel answered genuinely happy for his new friend. The ghost’s smile was infectious and Miguel couldn’t help smiling himself. “So, who do you think she was?”

“I’m leaning more toward niece or sister…”

“Not daughter?”

The ghost’s smile twitched downward ever so slightly. “I really hope I didn’t forget my own daughter.”

The sound of a foghorn erupted from Miguel’s phone, startling them both. Miguel took it out of his pocket to see a text from Rosa. _When did she change my ringtone?_ The text simply said, “Look.”

Miguel looked up to see Rosa, across the station, glaring at him and tapping her wrist where a watch would be. _Oops, almost forgot._ “Hey, I hope it’s okay, but I kind of brought my cousins to see you.” The ghost gave him a questioning look and Miguel realized how weird that sounded. _Aw crap, he thinks they’re here to gawk at him._ “I mean, I’ve been telling them about our conversations and they wanted to see if they could talk to you up close too. They’ve been pretty helpful. In fact, they helped me find this thing I wanted to show you.”

The ghost glanced over at them. “I guess that’d be okay...”

“Don’t worry, they’re pretty nice.” Miguel waved them over.

“Finally,” Rosa grumbled into Miguel’s ear as they joined him. She glanced up at the ghost and nodded. “Yup, I can still see him. Hola, I’m Rosa.”

The ghost gave her a half smile and waved. “Hola,” it said, presumably in both Miguel and Rosa’s heads.

“Oh, good,” Miguel said. This was going okay so far. “Abel, can you see him?” Miguel turned his head to his cousin who looked up, slack-jawed at the ghost. Miguel gave him a nudge and a don’t-be-rude glare. “Abel?”

His cousin shook himself out of his awed daze. “I’m Abel,” he said, extending his hand. The ghost reached out to shake, but his hand phased right through. They went through the motions anyway. Abel shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Uh, we have a famous ghost in our hometown,” he blurted out. “He plays guitar too.”

The ghost glanced between Abel and Miguel. “Uh, that’s nice...”

“Some people think he haunts a theater here in Mexico City, but I think he’s really haunting his grave because you can sometimes here guitar music coming from his mausoleum. No one’s seen him though, but people also say they can hear him singing in the theater. Can ghosts haunt two places at once?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t know.”

Miguel shot his cousin a glare, shutting Abel up. The ghosts was sad enough about being trapped here as it was. He didn’t need to hear about famous ghosts who could possibly jump from city to city as a whim. “So anyway,” He said, sitting on the stairs and opening the backpack. “Like I said, we found something we’d like to show you.” He took out the laptop as his cousins join him on the steps. “We found this webpage about famous unsolved mysteries…” The ghost nodded, but it was clear from his expression that he had no idea what a webpage was. _How do I begin to explain the internet to a hundred year old ghost?_ Miguel just decided to keep going. It didn’t really matter in the long run. All that mattered was the picture. “Anyway, one of the mysteries is the identity of the Musician with Poison Tears.”

“So, you’re identity,” Abel clarified.

“Yeah, and there’s some pictures, but this one looks just like you.” Miguel brought up the screenshot they took of the webpage. The ghost floated behind them to have a look. His eyes started to glow. Miguel started to grin in anticipation. Yes, this was working. The ghost was getting his memories and…

“Hey, Soul Patch!”

They looked up. The same security officer from a few days ago glared down at them with her arms crossed. Oh no, what was it now? They just got here. Miguel looked over at the ghost. The glow was gone. _Damn._

“Alright kid, this is the third day in a row you’ve shown up here and I never saw you buy a ticket or get on a train.”

“Umm…”

“And now you’ve got an entourage.  I want to know what’s up.”

Miguel chewed his lip. He wasn’t sure how to explain _. Hi, I’m just here having a chat with an amnesiac legendary ghost. No big deal._ Even just thinking it sounded like a bad lie. Before he could come up with something better, Rosa spoke up.

 “He’s just here ghost hunting.” She laid on a thick layer of cynicism, as if she didn’t believe it; as if she wasn’t sitting next to the ghost at that very moment.

“He’s trying to solve the mystery of the Musician with the Poison tears,” Abel added. “He’s even talked to the ghost.”

Disbelief flashed on the woman’s face before settling into skepticism. “Is this true, kid?”

Miguel’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he glanced around at his cousins and the ghost. He hated being put on the spot like that and he was still a little miffed at being called a kid. He thought about denying it and saying his cousins were just kidding around, but he caught the ghost’s eyes and he couldn’t do it. The ghost went a hundred years without a friend. Miguel wasn’t about to pretend that he didn’t exist like everyone else.

Miguel let out a breath then looked the security officer right in the eye. “It’s true.”

“And you talked to him?”

“Yes, he’s actually here right now.” Miguel jabbed his thumb over his shoulder where the ghost was. The security officer looked at the space, but clearly saw nothing.

Rosa sighed and began, “Look. I know it sounds crazy…”

“No, I believe you,” the officer said, her face softening.

“What?”

“I’ve seen him too,” she continued, uncrossing her arms. “Everyone who’s worked here more than a few months has had at least one sighting, but no one’s ever seen him up close, let alone talked to him.”

“And you don’t mind working in a haunted place?” Abel asked.

The security officer smiled and shook her head. “Nah, he seems harmless. I’m glad someone’s getting through to him, though. Some nights, when there’s not a lot of people around, I hear his music. He always sounds so sad and lonely. How’s he been doing?”

“Good, I think,” Miguel answered. It felt weird to speak for someone who was right next to him, but it’s not like there was any other way. “He’s starting to remember stuff and I think he likes the company.”

“That’s good to hear,” The security officer answered, genuine care in her voice. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Ghostbusters. If anyone bothers you, just tell them you’re friends with Lareina, okay?”

As she walked away, Miguel looked the ghost who watched the woman with a faint smile on his lips. When he noticed Miguel watching him, he shook off the smile and asked, “So, you wanted to show me something?”

“Yeah,” Miguel opened the laptop again and pulled up the picture. “Looks just like you, when you were alive I mean.”

The ghost’s eyes flashed as he stared at the picture. Miguel waited intently for the ghost to say something, but he just kept staring. Was there a chance this wasn’t the ghost? Just some guy who looked remarkably like him? “I thought this would help, but if you’re not getting anything…”

“Hector…” The ghost said, sounding like he just emerged from a trance.

“What?” Rosa gasped.

“It is my name…” The ghost went on. “I’m sure of it now. My name is Hector.”

Miguel grinned, dimple on full display. His friend had a name. Hector. Hector the musical ghost. “Do you remember anything else?”

The ghost…no… Hector straightened up and puffed his chest out proudly. “I was a musician,” he proclaimed. “I was a professional musician. I came here to play.”

Miguel looked at his cousins. Abel grinned just as wide as Miguel. Rosa looked astonished, but the upturned corner of her lip told him she was happy for Hector too.

“What about mi amore?” Abel asked.

Hector looked confused for a second then answered, “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know her. I’m sure she’s lovely, though.”

“No, he means you,” Miguel explained. “There’s a description next the picture. It says you were found with a letter addressed to-”

“Mi amore,” Hector finished for him. He smiled even brighter as he floated high in the air. “Ay, mi amore, mi amore,” he laughed. “My wife! Beautiful, smart, fierce, passionate… I can’t believe she was mine!” The ghost floated higher as the memories filled him. He looked almost as lively as the picture. Even the color seemed to come back to his face. “I remember her singing. Oh, I wish you could hear her sing. She sang, I played, and…” He suddenly stopped, a look of realization took over his face.

“What is it?” Rosa asked.

“She… she was a mother…”

“So, the little girl…” Miguel began.

“My daughter!” Hector grinned again and resumed his excitable floating tricks. “I was a papa! I had a family! My family! Mi familia! Maravillosa!” He floated down to his friends on the ground. “Oh, I love them, Miguel. I just barely remember them, but I feel it in my heart. I love them so much.”

“And that’s why you want to go home so bad,” Miguel suggested.

“Home?” Hector’s face suddenly fell. He sank down into the steps, his colors faded and his tears streaming. “That’s right. Home isn’t here. I never made it home.” The tears came harder and he buried his face in his hands. “I’m a terrible father.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Abel said. He tried to put a hand on Hector’s shoulder, but again it fell through. “You died. It’s not like you wanted to die.”

“I forgot them,” Hector went on. “What kind of husband forgets his wife? What kind of father forgets his daughter?”

“You forgot everything, though,” Miguel reasoned. “You couldn’t even remember your own name until a few minutes ago. I’m sure you didn’t do it intentionally.”

“I never came home. I promised, but I never came home,” The ghost sobbed. “I left and I never saw them again.”

“Maybe you will?” Rosa said, scratching the back of her neck. Emotional situations always made her uncomfortable. “You know, in the afterlife?”

“Yeah, maybe once you regain all your memories, you’ll cross over,” Miguel said, putting on the same peppy voice his mother always used to encourage him. “We just have to keep trying, and then you’ll see your family again.”

“You think?” Hector asked, lifting his head.

“Yeah, I really do.”

The ghost’s ever present tears slowed to their usual thin streams and he forced a smile. “Does your thing at least say if they knew what happened?” he asked. “Did they know I died? That I was trying to come home?”

“Uh, it doesn’t say,” Miguel answered, snapping the laptop shut. “But, they’re your family. I’m sure they came to get you.”

The ghost’s forced smile became the slightest bit real. Miguel let out an uneasy breath then looked at Rosa who glared at him. He lied. She knew he lied. She didn’t say anything, but he knew what he had to look forward to. She’d probably tell him something about how lying leads to more problems and how Hector will be even more hurt once he finds out the truth. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it too. But, he saw the fragile hope on the ghost’s face. How could the truth do him any good now? Besides, there were plenty of reasons why the family never claimed his body. Maybe the news never reached their hometown. It didn’t mean they didn’t love him. They just didn’t know.

 _But if they never knew he died, what did they think happened to him?_ Miguel shook the thought from his head.  Every scenario he could come up with was more tragic than the last. No, he couldn’t tell Hector the truth, at least not now.

The truth would crush him, but the lie gave him hope. How much harm could a little white lie really do?


	6. Chapter 6

_The little girl flew up toward the ceiling and squealed with delight as she landed in a man’s hands._

_“Be careful with her.”_

_“She’s fine. She likes it, see?” He launched her into the air and she giggled as he caught her again._

_“If you drop her, I swear I will kill you.”_

_“No need to be so harsh, mama,” the man said teasingly. He tossed her again and flashed a cocky grin. However, when she came back down, she slipped through his fingers. He managed to catch her before she hit the ground, hugging her awkwardly under her arms and bracing her against his chest. She wasn’t upset. In fact, she was laughing, but the fun was over. Her father’s heart was still pounding._

_“That’s it,” Héctor declared as he marched across the room and snatched his daughter back. “No more throwing the baby.” The little girl’s face screwed up and she made babbling sounds which threatened to turn into cries. Héctor quickly remedied this by tickling her tummy and blowing a kiss into her cheek._

_“Ugh, you sound like your wife,” the other man said, rolling his eyes._

_“Don’t you roll your eyes at me. You’re the one who almost dropped my daughter.”_

_“Did she die? No,” the other man huffed as he crossed his arms. “Save your Papa Voice for when she’s older and she gets in some real trouble.”_

_Héctor let out a weary sigh. “I’m not going to fight about it. Just don’t do it again.”_

_“Fine,” the other man conceded, still looking miffed. “We need to get back to practicing anyway. Did you finish that new song of yours?”_

[-]

Héctor’s vision faded back into the train station. He’d been getting flashes like this ever since he started talking to the young man, Miguel. They were usually of his little girl or the woman he presumed to be his wife _. If that really is my wife, I hit the jackpot._ Sometimes, other people came up. There were the twins, who were either his brothers or his wife’s. There was another, older woman. From the flashes, he could tell he was a child when he knew her, so he guessed she was his mother. Then there was the other man who Héctor mentally named Hair Loop.

He was having some trouble placing Hair Loop. From what he could tell, Hair Loop was around a lot. Maybe another brother? Or just a really close friend? This new memory gave him a clue. Hair Loop mentioned practicing and strings. They must have played together, whoever he was.

The train station became crystal clear. He looked around. It was night again. He didn’t like nights. He didn’t sleep, so they always dragged. At least during the day, there were other people around. Even if he couldn’t talk to them, he could watch them go about their lives. At night, there were a few security officers milling around and maybe a few people catching late night or early morning trains. Sometimes he’d get some drunk people who could be entertaining. Mostly, though, he was just bored.

The world went hazy again and he felt his heart jump. Another one.

[-]

_He hummed as he watched his baby girl’s eyes slide closed. He bit his lip as excitement stirred in his veins. Asleep! She’s asleep! After holding her for a few more minutes to make sure she stayed asleep, he laid her down in her crib and tip toed out of the room._

_“Is she really asleep?” his wife asked, a smile spreading across her face._

_“She’s really asleep. It took about eight lullabies and an hour of rocking, but she’s finally down.” He took his wife in his arms and pecked her on the lips. “I don’t know whether to sleep or eat first.”_

_“Eat,” she said, gesturing to the table. “I just cooked.”_

_“You’re an angel. When did I get to heaven?” He gave her one more kiss and turned to the table. He’d only just sat down when the baby’s small cries began again. He started to get up, when his wife put her arms around his shoulders and gently pushed him back down._

_“I’ll get her. You’ve had her for hours.”_

_“You sure?”_

_“Sí, she’s probably just hungry, too.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and started toward the bedroom. “Besides,” she threw a cheeky smirk over her shoulder, “I can’t let you get any skinnier.”_

[-]

His vision faded back into the present, another moment of bliss passed. He’d grown to love these flashes. They were more than mere memory. They were his only means of leaving this place. For just that moment, he was no longer trapped. He could live the life of a man with friends and family, a life that was once his.

The train station became clear and he sighed as he glanced around at his strange prison. Grey, mostly, as far as the eye could see. He was thankful for the people with their funny modern clothes. Without them, he might have forgotten what colors were.

At least he was afforded one luxury. He floated over to the large glass windows. They let him see a lot of the sky, which he guessed was a perk. He’d have gone mad long ago if he was stuck somewhere with no view of the world. Still, he wished he could go outside and see a blanket of stars over him. God, how he missed the sky.

_What color is the sky?_

_Ay mi amor, ay mi amor…_

What was that? A song? A new song? He’d been playing the same one for years, maybe even decades. It was the only one he knew. But this one, this new song… It felt amazing. A new song! Was it one he knew in life? It must be. It was moving too fast in his mind to have just been made up on the spot.

He positioned his arms and felt the familiar weight of his phantom guitar in his hands. That was one good thing about being a ghost. His guitar was always right there when he needed it.

He played the song, his fingers dancing as he coaxed out the upbeat new tune. It was much different than the one he usually played. He wasn’t feeling quiet as sad as he’d grown accustomed to. This was new. This was fun!

 _He_ was having _fun._

[-]

Miguel was sure this was the best idea anyone’s ever come up with. He rushed to the train station carrying his guitar on his back and grinning like an idiot. The ghost, Héctor, was a musician, right? So what better way to jog a musician’s memory than with music?

He couldn’t take complete credit. The night before, Rosa showed him some research online about how music can help dementia patients. Maybe it could help amnesia-plagued ghosts, too. The idea was perfect. Why hadn’t he thought about it before?

He walked into the train station and heard a jaunty guitar playing. It sounded like… Un Poco Loco! One of his favorites! But where…

He turned in the direction of the music and found Héctor perched on a windowsill, his arms in guitar-holding position and his fingers dancing along where the frets would be. “Hola, Miguel,” The ghost said brightly. His lips moved. No blood. Though, his demeanor was a stark contrast to the tears which still streamed down his face. “Listen to this. I remembered another song.”

“I heard. That’s great!”                 

“It’s a happy song, too.” He said this as if it was some novel thing. It both warmed Miguel’s heart and stabbed him in the gut. How miserable must this ghost have been to forget what happy songs sounded like?

“I brought my guitar, today,” Miguel said, and he twisted to reveal the instrument on his back. “I thought, if we played together, it might jog some of your memories.”

Héctor’s face melted as if he’d just been asked to be a godparent. “I would love to, Miguel.”

“Hola, Ghostbuster!”

Miguel turned around to see Lareina waving as she approached. “Did you hear? The ghost has a new song. He’s been playing it since I came in this morning.”

“I’ve been playing since last night,” Héctor corrected.

“He says he’s been playing since last night,” Miguel said, suspecting Lareina couldn’t hear him.

“Is he here right now?” she asked, her eyes widening slightly.

“Sí, right behind me.” Miguel poked a thumb over his shoulder at the ghost.

“I thought I saw him there,” she said with a smile. “Whatever you’re doing must be working. It’s nice to hear him sound happier, you know.”

Héctor beamed and excitedly waved his hand through Miguel’s elbow, causing a cold tingling sensation. “Miguel, can you tell her I thank her for her concern and that she’s really sweet for thinking of me?”

Miguel couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s enthusiasm. “He says he appreciates your concern and he thinks you’re sweet.”

“Gracias,” Lareina beamed. “I didn’t know a ghost could be so kind.”

“Aw, amiga…” Héctor said, putting a hand to where his heart would have been. “I’d blush if I still could.”

“He’s very flattered,” Miguel translated.

She gave a polite nod in response. “Is that your guitar, Ghostbuster?” she asked, pointing at the instrument on his back.

“Yeah, I was going to play with him, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine by me.” She waved goodbye and began walking away. “I’ll tell the other security guards to leave you be, too.”

Once she was gone, Miguel sat down on a bench near the window and flipped his guitar around to the front. “Alright, what to play first?”

“Can I keep playing my new song?” he asked without pausing his notes. “At least for a little while? It just makes me feel so good.”

Miguel smiled, got his guitar in position, and started playing along. He knew this song by heart. Héctor was right.  It did feel good to play. It made him feel excited and alive. His fingers danced up and down the fret board as the tempo picked up. From the corner of his eye, he could see Héctor plucking at the air, seemingly coaxing the tune out of nothing. Even without a visible guitar, Miguel could tell the ghost’s own talent from his fancy finger work and the ease with which he moved his hands.

“Ah, nice work, amigo.” Héctor beamed like a proud papa. “You’re picking it up quick.”

“I already know this song.” Miguel beamed back and sang, “You make me un poco loco, un pocitititito loco…”

“You know the words, too?”

“Yeah, it’s Un Poco Loco, one of my favorite songs.”

“One of your favorite songs?” The ghost gave him a confused look. “So, other people know this song?”

 “Yeah, it’s by a very famous musician, possibly the most famous in Mexican history. He was from your time, so you must have heard his songs.”

 _Wait, that doesn’t work. Héctor died in 1921 and Ernesto’s first album didn’t come out until 1923._ Miguel stopped playing as his thoughts took over. It didn’t make sense. He had to have heard the song somewhere, but he’d been trapped for a hundred years and the train station didn’t have music playing. So, how would he have heard?

“Something wrong, Miguel?” Héctor asked, pausing his playing as well.

“Oh, no. It’s just this guy I’m thinking of,” Miguel answered. “He didn’t get famous until after you died. Unless… Wait, you said you were a traveling musician, right?”

“I think so. I know I traveled here to play.”

“He started out that way too. Maybe you met him on the touring circuit.” Miguel reached into his pocket and took out his phone. “Here, let me pull up a picture of him.”

After a quick google image search, Miguel selected a picture of Ernesto De la Cruz from his first album cover. He flipped the phone to show Héctor who leaned in for a closer look. His eyes glowed white and he whispered, “Ernesto De la Cruz.”

Miguel’s stomach did a flip and a grin stretched across his face. “You know him?”

The glow did not fade from the ghost’s eyes. “My…old…friend…”

Miguel’s heart leapt. This was amazing. He was talking to someone who actually knew _the_ Ernesto De la Cruz in real life! More than that, they were friends! Sure, droves of people claimed to know Ernesto De la Cruz before he was famous, but that was true of any celebrity. A lot of them turned out to be fake but this? What reason would the ghost have to lie?  “You really did know him?”

The glowing in his eyes faded. “We…played…together…” he hummed as he returned from his daze.

“You played music with Ernesto De la Cruz?” Miguel’s eyes went wide as saucers. This was huge! An old friend of Ernesto De la Cruz, a musician friend, was sitting (floating?) right here in front of him. All this time, he’d been talking to someone who knew his hero. In a way, it made sense. A legendary musician should have legendary friends. “Did you learn together? Or meet up a lot on tour?”

“I’d been getting flashes of memory even when you’re not around. He’s been in a few. I saw him playing with my daughter and I saw us performing on stage together. I’ve seen him a lot in strange hotel rooms. I think we toured together.”

Wait, that wasn’t right. Miguel read Ernesto De la Cruz’s official biography dozens of times and there was never any mention of a music partner. It talked about him touring in the early 1920s before his big break, but as a solo act. “Are you sure?” Maybe the ghost was mistaken. He was only getting flashes, after all. Maybe they played together a few times for fun, but they couldn’t have been a double act. “What makes you think that?”

“He was there the night I died.”

“Wait, what?”

“That’s what I just remembered. We had a fight. He wanted to keep touring much longer than we meant to. I wanted to go home. He said he couldn’t do it without my songs, but I was determined to go back to my family. He seemed to understand this and even toasted our friendship. But then,” he tucked a hand across his stomach, “on the walk to the train station, I started to feel wrong. I got a sharp pain in my stomach. I think that’s… how I…”

“Wait, did you say your songs?” Miguel asked. He knew he shouldn’t fixate on that. The ghost may have just remembered his own death, after all, but that was the part that stuck out to him. If Héctor really did play with De la Cruz, and De la Cruz was begging for his songs… No, it was impossible.

“Yes, my songs,” Héctor confirmed. “I had a book I wrote them in. It is what the fight was about. I took my songs with me when I left.”

“But, that can’t be right. De la Cruz wrote all of his songs.”

“Maybe, but not these ones,” Héctor said, sounding a bit annoyed, “not the ones we played together.”

“Well, they must have been different songs, not the ones he used when he got famous.” _But, then how does he know Un Poco Loco?_   “Do you remember any of the songs you wrote?”

“Just this one.” Héctor put his hands around his invisible guitar and played his slow, soft version of Remember Me.

Impossible. That was Ernesto De la Cruz’s most popular song. “You’re sure you wrote this song?”

“Absolutely. I feel it in my heart. I wrote it for someone very… special…” The ghost’s eyes glowed again as he stared off into the distance. Then, he began to sing. “Remember me, though I have to say goodbye… Remember me, don’t let it make you cry…” His voice took on an ethereal, breathy quality as he continued through the rest of the song.

Miguel could only watch in amazement as Héctor played, lost in a world of memory. He looked oddly serene, even a little happy. A nagging feeling in Miguel’s stomach sent him off kilter. Héctor was wrong. This song may be sentimental, he may even have played it with De la Cruz, but he did not write it.

Héctor finished playing and the glow faded from his eyes. “My daughter,” he said with a smile, “I wrote it for my daughter.”

“Did you just see yourself writing it?”

“No,” Héctor said, his dreamy look still in his eyes. “I saw myself playing it for her.”

“Well, then, that’s not really proof, is it?” Miguel blurted out. The contented look of Héctor’s face disappeared and he immediately regretted his choice of words.

“What?”

“I mean, you may have played it for her and I’m sure it was lovely, but it doesn’t prove you wrote it for her.”

“I did, Miguel,” Héctor said, an edge to his tone. “I’m sure of it.”

“But how do you know?”

“I just…” Héctor’s face faltered. “I just know.”

“But that doesn’t prove anything,” Miguel said, setting aside his guitar. “You can’t even remember most of your life. I mean, how do you know you’re not interpreting your memories wrong?”

The ghost’s eyes fell into a glare. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” Miguel argued. “Everyone knows Ernesto De la Cruz wrote his own songs and Remember Me is his most popular song. You can’t both have written it.”

“We didn’t both write it. _I_ wrote it.” The ghost insisted, the edge in his voice sharpening. “And I may not remember everything, but I know what he said to me that night. He said he couldn’t do it without my songs, _my songs_. Not ours, not his, _mine_.”

“How can you know? You can’t prove that you wrote them except for your unreliable memories. Meanwhile, Ernesto De la Cruz’s songbook is on display in a museum right now.”

Miguel felt a small twinge of guilt bringing up the songbook. That book was a point of contention among music historians. It’s been noted that the handwriting in the book doesn’t match other samples of De la Cruz’s handwriting at the time. Some think this points to the book being a fake while others think it gives credence to the claims past songwriters made of plagiarism. Miguel always dismissed the latter idea. _But maybe…_

No, no a genius artist like De la Cruz couldn’t be a thief.

“Was the songbook red?”

Miguel paused. _How did he…. No, no, lucky guess._

“I know I wrote them Miguel,” Héctor continued. He closed his eyes and wracked his brain. “I wrote them… for my family, to support them with my music.”

“But your family didn’t even-” Miguel stopped and slapped his hands over his mouth. He felt the full weight of his mistake as Héctor’s face crumbled.

“Didn’t even what?” Héctor asked, his voice growing panicked. “Miguel, what do you know?”

Miguel dropped his eyes to the floor. He couldn’t finish that sentence. It’d do no good and he couldn’t smash the hope his friend had been building. He didn’t have to say anything, however. Héctor only had to study Miguel’s face and he knew.  

“My family never came for me, did they?” The words came out in something below a whisper. “But if they didn’t come, did no one tell them I died?” He settled on the bench beside Miguel. His expression twisted sorrow and bitterness. “Ernesto watched me die. He said he’d move heaven and earth for me, but he couldn’t even be bothered to…”

Miguel looked up. “Heaven and Earth?”

Héctor nodded. “Sí, in our toast, he said ‘I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo.’ Guess they were just empty words.”

This was sounding too familiar. Miguel spent many a night tucked up in the crawl space watching Ernesto De la Cruz movies after the rest of his family had gone to bed. He knew them all by heart and knew that toast exactly, except the toast was followed by the discovery of poison tequila. _Poison tears…he’s crying tequila…_

No, no that was insane, just a crazy conspiracy theory. Ernesto De la Cruz wasn’t just famous for being a musician and actor. He was also known as one of the friendliest and most charismatic celebrities out there. People loved him. Apart from the occasional hater, few people were known to have said a bad word about him. Then there were a few nobody songwriters who tried to get attention by claiming he…stole…their…songs… No, those other guys were just trying to bite off some of his fame. Someone with as stellar a reputation as De la Cruz couldn’t be a murderer, right?

_Héctor died that same night…_

No, it was all just a coincidence…an oddly specific coincidence.

A cold tingling sensation brought him out of his throughts. He looked up to see Héctor leaning over him, attempting to grasp his shoulders. “Miguel, if you know something about my family, please tell me.”

“I…” He bit his tongue, punishing any thought of revealing the truth. “No, I don’t.”

“I want to know,” the ghost begged. “Please, I don’t want to stay in the dark anymore. Please tell-”

Héctor froze. He stared straight ahead, his eyes emitting a dull glow. It wasn’t the bright flash of light which signified a recovered memory. This light was cold and hazy, like sunlight straining through a fog. Miguel felt his insides turning to ice as he stared into these eyes. His every mistake flashed before his eyes: lying to his family, lying to Héctor, the fight after graduation, what he said to abuelita… The Miguel from his vision was a selfish, uncaring brat. Who did he think he was disregarding his family’s values? Yelling at his parents? Deliberately hurting Abuelita with his awful, awful words? This Miguel didn’t deserve his scholarship or his spot at the Conservatorio. He didn’t deserve anything. He was worthless.

The ghost straightened up and turned his head. The cold feeling inside Miguel began to fade as the ghost drew away. In a blink, the ghost disappeared. Miguel looked for him and saw him across the station, floating in front of a man in a brown jacket, talking on a cell phone. The man froze at the sight of the ghost and looked off in a daze as if entranced. The ghost’s hands curled around something invisible and passed it to the man who held it up to his mouth. _Poison. Poison tequila._

The man then dropped to the floor and cracked his head on the tiles. The people round him went into an uproar. Security ran over. There were gasps, calls for a doctor, and shouts to call an ambulance. Miguel knew it was all useless. The man was dead.

Miguel lost sight of the ghost in the chaos. He disappeared when the man dropped. _Will he come back to me?_ Miguel wondered. He wasn’t about to stick around to find out. He slung his guitar on his back and ran out of the building.

[-]

When he arrived back at his grandparent’s place, no one was home. He’d gotten a text earlier from Rosa about going out to lunch. It didn’t matter right now. There was only one person he needed to talk to right now and she was back in Santa Cecelia.

He went straight to his room, shut the door, and called home. His heart thumped with each ring. _Please pick up_ , he begged, praying for it to be abuelita on the other end. He’d have a better chance of speaking to her if she picked up.

After about four rings, someone answered. “Hola?” His Pap said.

Miguel let out a ragged breath. “Hola Papá.”

“Miguel? Is something wrong? You sound upset.”

“No, it’s just… is abuelita there?”

“She is but she’s,” his father hesitated and Miguel’s heart jumped into his throat. “She’s tired today,” Enrique finished. “I’m not sure she’ll be up for talking right now.”

 _She hates me._ “Can you ask? Please?”

“I’ll see. Hold on.” There was an agonizingly long pause on the other end. He could hear a short, whispered argument. “I’m sorry, Miguel,” his father said when he came back on the line. “She’s just…like I said she’s tired.”

Miguel hadn’t realized he was about to cry until that moment. The tears spilled over and he reached up to wipe them away.  _What did you expect after what you said?_

“What’s wrong, m’ijo?” Enrique asked, apparently hearing Miguel’s sniffles through the phone. “Listen, you need to be patient with her. She needs time to cool off and… huh?” Miguel heard his father try to cup his hand over the receiver. “One minute, Coco,” he whispered away from the phone. “I’m on the phone… yes it’s Miguel… I don’t think he’s in the mood to talk right now. Maybe later.”

“Coco’s there?” Miguel asked. He thought of Héctor’s daughter, the one who never got to know what happened to her papa, and his heart twisted.

“Yes, do you want to talk to her?”

“Sí, sí, please.” He was suddenly filled with a need to talk to his sister. _At least she’ll never have to wonder. “_ Hand her the phone.”

After some audible shuffling, a sweet, lively voice came through the phone. “Miguel?”

“Hola Coco.” His tears came harder and he tried breathing deep to calm them.

“Are you sad?” she asked innocently.

“Yeah,” he answered through a ragged breath, “I’m a little sad.”

“Why?”

 _Because I ruined everything._ “I’m just not having a very good day.”

“Oh...” There was a pause and he heard her repeatedly open and close a drawer as she thought. “I saw a pretty bird today and it made me happy. Would it help if I drew if for you?”

He laughed through his tears. “You know what, Coco? I think it would.”

“I’ll show it to you when you get back.”

“Can’t wait.” His insides began to warm and a smile returned to his face. _At least I’ve got my sister._ “So, tell me about the bird.”


	7. Chapter 7

Hectór looked down from the ceiling as people began crowding around the man on the floor. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the chaos. It always happened. He couldn’t say he felt too sorry for the man. The man’s daughter on the other hand…

His insides twisted as he remembered what he saw. He’d witnessed so much horror and it never got easier. He just hoped he didn’t scare Miguel too much.

“Miguel!”

It all came flooding back: looking into Miguel’s soul, seeing the fight with his family, how horrible he felt… Hectór transported himself back to where he and Miguel sat just moments before. The bench was empty. “Miguel?” Hectór called as his heart tied itself a knot. He looked frantically around at the crowd. “Miguel?”

 _He’s gone. I’ve scared him away._ No, he had hold out hope. Miguel was his friend, right? _My only friend. I scared away my only friend._

“Miguel!” he called again, his voice growing more panicked. “Please come back! I’m sor-”

Blood gurgled up in the back of his throat and poured out of his mouth. Hectór slapped his hands over his lips, holding back the blood once again. _No, no, no! I thought I was done! I thought I was past this._ It was just like that night, that horrible night when he realized he was dead.

_Miguel, I’m so, so sorry._

 [-]

“What exactly are you expecting to find here?” Rosa asked, pushing open her laptop.

“Proof that Ernesto de la Cruz never had a music partner.” Miguel was sure he was right. He obsessed over Ernesto de la Cruz since he first heard the man’s music. He consumed every bit of information he could find on the musician. He read biographies, watched documentaries, and did his fair share of creepy googling. If Ernesto de la Cruz ever had a music partner, he’d know about it.  And yet, he still needed absolute proof. The ghost was so sure of his own memories that Miguel knew he wouldn’t accept reality without evidence. _It’ll be good for him,_ Miguel told himself. _Once he accepts his memories are false, he can start focusing on the real ones._

“Do you know how hard it is to prove a negative?” Rosa sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“Absence of evidence mistaken for evidence of absence,” she explained. “It’s a fallacy. Just because we can’t find it written down that he had a music partner doesn’t necessarily mean there never was one.”

“Fine then,” Miguel smirked. “I guess unicorns can exist since there’s no evidence of them not existing.”

“Faulty analogy,” Rosa said, waving a dismissive hand. “Verifying someone’s plausible claim that they knew a famous person before said person got famous is not the same as trying to prove a mythological creature exists.”

“Whatever,” Miguel huffed. He should have known better than to spar with Rosa. “I got a copy of Ernesto de la Cruz’s official biography from the library this morning.” He pulled the book out of his backpack. The famous musician’s face grinned from the cover. “This baby’s got the exact tour dates of Ernesto de la Cruz’s first cross country tour as well as the clubs he played in.”

Miguel turned the book over and looked at de la Cruz grinning on the cover. _Recurdame: la biografía oficial de Ernesto de la Cruz._ Miguel had one just like it at home hidden in the back of his closet. (As a matter of fact, his version was the special edition.) He read it so many times, he could probably recite it from memory. It didn’t take long for him to flip to the chapter he was looking for. Satisfied, he marked the pages.

 “So then, what’s your plan?” Abel asked from his seat at the desk.

“We’re going look up old newspapers from the time and see if there are advertisements for the clubs he played in that list the entertainment. If we don’t see Hectór’s name in the ones from Mexico City, it’ll prove he was never de la Cruz’s music partner.”

“And how do you know there’ll be advertisements?” Rosa asked.

“Because there’s a photograph of one in the special edition,” Miguel answered.

Rosa gave a non-committal shrug in response. “Doesn’t sound like much of a plan but it’ll kill an afternoon.”

Miguel rolled his eyes and rattled off the dates Ernesto was in Mexico City. He and his cousins got to work scrolling through the internet, searching for proof that might not exist. Rosa was in full research mode, scrolling diligently through her phone, a look of determination on her face. Though, Miguel suspected she was more determined to prove him wrong than to help Hectór. Which was, of course, why he was doing this. 

Miguel was just telling himself that the answers to a hundred-year-old conspiracy wouldn’t be found on the first page of google when Rosa made their first discovery.

“Ah-ha!” She declared, brandishing her phone in triumph. “I’ve got something.”

“What?” Miguel gasped. “Let me see.”

She grinned smugly and handed over the phone. There on the screen appeared to be a picture of an old newspaper clipping. It was an advertisement for one of the first clubs Ernesto played in Mexico City. It showed a short list of entertainers for the night and there, right under the name “Ernesto D” was “Hectór R.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Miguel said. “It could be a different Hectór.” Rosa only had to raise an eyebrow to communicate how unimpressed she was. “Besides,” he continued, “this doesn’t prove they played together, only that they played at the same club on the same night.”

“You said that if we didn’t see Hectór’s name in the advertisements, it would prove he wasn’t Ernesto’s music partner. We did find his name, so now you have to admit it was a possibility.”

“But this doesn’t _prove_ he was,” Miguel retorted.

“Miguel, stop moving goalposts,” Rosa demanded, demonstrating a remarkable resemblance to Abuelita’s scolding voice.

“I’m not necessarily wrong,” he argued, immediately hating his whiny tone. “I never said Hectór wasn’t a musician or didn’t go on tour, but he’s claiming that he played with Ernesto de la Cruz and wrote all of his songs. Just because we found evidence he might have been in the same city at the same time…”

“And played at the same clubs…”

“That doesn’t mean he was Ernesto’s music partner.”

“Well, I found something pretty interesting,” Abel chimed in. He turned around in his swivel chair, smirking and pressing his fingertips together.

“What’s that?” Miguel asked.

“While you too were looking for old books…”

“Newspapers,” Rosa corrected.

“Whatever. While you guys were doing that, I was diving into the world wide community of internet sleuths. I found some interesting conspiracies surrounding out friend de la Cruz.”

“Ugh, I’ve seen those,” Miguel said, rolling his eyes. “I’m pretty sure he’s not secretly still alive and golfing with Elvis.”

“Yeah, I found plenty of crackpot theories too, but I also found this.” Abel brought up a webpage and Miguel leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look. _Who is Hectór R?_ the banner read. “It’s looks like it’s a pretty ignored conspiracy,” Abel explained, getting up from his seat, “not nearly as juicy as possible illegitimate children or faking his own death, but definitely more plausible.”

Miguel sat down at the computer and began to flip through the webpage. He clicked on a slideshow which showed advertisements in old newspapers for the clubs Ernesto played on his first tour. From the beginning of the tour dates, Ernesto D. is listed with Hectór R. as entertainment. They are together on each advertisement until Mexico City. Immediately after that, Hectór’s name is never listed again.

The abrupt change made Miguel’s blood go cold. The website suggests a bitter falling out or creative differences to explain Hectór’s name was suddenly dropped, but Miguel knew the real reason. Hectór died here in Mexico City, and by the looks of it, Ernesto didn’t even spare a moment to mourn his supposed partner’s sudden death. _Poison,_ he remembered, _poison tequila._

“Guys,” Miguel sighed, slumping back in his chair, “there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Yeah?” Abel asked.

“Yesterday, Hectór remembered the night he died. He said Ernesto was with him. He told me what Ernesto said to him. The thing is, a character in a de la Cruz movie says the exact same thing right before he poisons his best friend.”

“You think Ernesto de la Cruz murdered Hectór?” Abel gasped.

“I don’t think Hectór knows but…”

“And that’s why you didn’t want to admit they were even in the same city at the same time,” Rosa said without even a hint of surprise in her voice. “You didn’t want to admit that your hero might be a murderer.”

“Yeah, but the fact that they played together, Hectór’s ghost crying poison tequila, what Ernesto said to him right before he died…”

“Still, none of that actually proves Ernesto killed him,” Abel pointed out.

“No, but the evidence is piling up,” Miguel admitted, crossing his arms on the desk and burying his face.

“How can we know for sure, though?”

That was a good question. It’s not like there were any witnesses around, or at least not ones who’d still be alive to ask. Hectór remembered his death, but he didn’t remember his murder. He didn’t suspect Ernesto of being anything more than a thief and a liar. If the ghost of the possible murder victim didn’t have any answers than who did? _The ghost of the possible murderer._ “We can ask him,” Miguel said, popping his head back up. “We can ask Ernesto.”

“What?” Abel gasped.

Rosa looked at him like he just suggested asking a unicorn. “Okay, just because you can talk to one ghost, doesn’t mean…”

“He’s said to haunt the theater where he died.”

“Or the Santa Cecelia cemetery,” Abel added.

“It’s one of the two,” Miguel said dismissively, “and people have heard him singing in the theater.”

“They’ve heard him playing in the cemetery,” Abel argued.

“So, there’s a 50% chance we’ll find him at either place.” Miguel popped out of the chair and started looking for the keys. “That’s good odds.”

“No, it’s really not,” Rosa said, shaking her head.

Miguel barely heard her as he was already holding the keys and heading for the door. “Abel, you’ll come, right?”

“You bet!”

“Abel!” Rosa exclaimed.

“What? I want to see another ghost.”

“Fine, guess I’ll come too,” Rosa reluctantly followed the two out the door. “I’ve got to make sure you don’t get cursed or something.”

[-]

The theater was closed when they got there. The historical tours had ended for the day and the night’s production wouldn’t start for another few hours. This didn’t deter Miguel, though. He tried every door. He pulled the handles, banged on the side, and called for anyone on the inside who could let him in. Abel followed close behind, but kept an eye out for anyone who looked like they might be calling the cops. After a few minutes of this, Rosa decided to go wait in the truck and pretend that she didn’t know them.

Miguel finally found some semblance of luck with a stage door on the side of the building. After some pounding and shouting, a grumpy-looking custodian cracked open the door. “What do you want?” he grumbled, peering and eye through the door.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could come inside for a minute,” Miguel began, fidgeting with his jacket. “I just need to look for something, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Look for what?”

“Well, I’ve heard that Ernesto de la Cruz…”

“Ah Christ,” the man exclaimed, throwing open the door. “You’re a ghost hunter, aren’t you?”

Miguel glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, kinda…”

The man rolled his eyes and leaned against the door frame. “Look, I’ve been here for 25 years and you want to know the truth about Ernesto’s ghost?”

Miguel dropped his hand and perked up. “Yeah?”

“It’s Paula in finances.”

 _Paula? Who’s…_ “Huh?”

“And before her, it was Emilia. And before her, it was Gabriel. Then there was Lucas and Carlos and Abril…”

“I-I don’t get it,” Miguel stammered out. Why was this guy rattling off these names? Did they all encounter the ghost? Or know how to make the ghost appear? Or…

“This place attracts all sorts of de la Cruz fanatics,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “They usually play his music while they work. In fact, since the ghost rumors started, it’s encouraged. This is an old building. It’s not unusual for sounds to travel through the vents and when de la Cruz’s music travels through the vents, it gives it this creepy, hollow sound.”

“Like a ghost…” Miguel mumbled, his eyes dropping to the ground. _It’s fake, just like everything else about him._

“Right.” The man’s face softened a bit when he saw the disappointment on Miguel’s face. “Look, I’m giving it to you straight because I’m tired of being bothered by fans, but de la Cruz ain’t here. I doubt he has been since he died.”

“Oh, well, sorry I interrupted you,” Miguel said, beginning to walk away. “Thanks anyway.”

Miguel made his way back to the truck where his cousins were waiting. “What’s up?” Abel asked, noting Miguel’s dejected expression.

“No ghost,” Miguel answered, opening the door to the back seat. “Just a tourist trap.”

“Oh, guess we can head back now.”  Abel got in the driver’s seat and pulled away. “You know,” he began, glancing at Miguel’s face in the rear view, “I saw an episode of his ghost hunting show once where they went through the theater and they found…”

“Oh, come on. You know those shows are crap,” Rosa snapped. “It’s all just confirmation bias.”

“What? Okay some are but…”

“They’re all the same. They wander around in the dark, then they hear a gust of wind and freak out. And then they bring in the psychics…”

“What’s wrong with the psychics?”

“They’re carnival hucksters out to profit off of desperate people. They might as well be selling literal snake oil.”

“Okay, maybe they are making it up, but they can help comfort people.”

“How is it comforting to be lied straight to your face?” Rosa snapped. Miguel winced. “They don’t actually care about that. All you have to do to be a tv psychic and wave your hands around and say you feel a vague presence.”

Miguel tuned out their conversation and stared out the window as he thought. Just how much of de la Cruz was fake? Miguel lived most of his young life drinking in the words of Ernesto de la Cruz. He’d seen every known recorded interview and read every word the man had to say about music. How many times had Ernesto’s words spurred him on? Did he really believe in music’s power to move hearts and minds? Did he really think some things in life could only be expressed with music? What about seizing your moment? Or risking everything to achieve your dream, no matter what the cost? Or was Hectór’s life just the price for Ernesto? Was that all Hectór was worth to him? Just a toll to pay for fame?

If that was what it took to be just like Ernesto de la Cruz, Miguel didn’t want it anymore. “I have to give back the scholarship,” he announced, to himself, to his cousins, and to the gods of music themselves. He would never be like de la Cruz. The cost was far too high.

Rosa wheeled around in her seat and shocked him with the most intense I-can’t-believe-what-an-idiot-you-are look he’d ever seen. “That’s real dumb.”

“De la Cruz wouldn’t have that money if he hadn’t killed Hectór,” Miguel retorted. Rosa could rail against him for his idealistic nonsense as much as she wanted. He wouldn’t profit off of murder. “I can’t take it, Rosa. It’s blood money.”

“That money is going to be there whether you take it or not,” Rosa argued. “If you reject it, they’ll just give it to someone else, someone who doesn’t know or might not even care where that money really came from.”

“But if I accept it…”

“What?” Rosa snapped. “What will it change? Hectór won’t pop back to life. Ernesto won’t be any less rich and famous. Why should you give up your education because of what some creep did over a hundred years ago?” Her face shifted and her voice softened. “You earned this, Miguel. Take it and turn it into something good.”

A small smile tugged at Miguel’s lips. “Thanks, Rosa.”

Rosa smiled back and nodded firmly. “And if I find out you did something as stupid as throw all that money away, I’m going to be the one who kills you. I can’t allow you to taint the Rivera family with your idiot genes.”

“Noted,” Miguel said with a small laugh.

Rosa was right, as usual. At least something got settled today. They still weren’t sure that Hectór wrote the songs or that Ernesto de la Cruz was a murderer, but the evidence couldn’t be ignored. It just all fit too perfectly: why Hectór’s family never came for him, why the ghost cried poison tequila, why the lines in the movie matched up so well with what Ernesto said in the real world. Not to mention, the strange handwriting in Ernesto’s supposed song book and the fact that others had claimed to have their songs stolen. The truth was staring him in the face the whole time, and Miguel was finally ready to accept it. There was just one more thing Miguel had to do.

“Abel, can we make one more stop?”


End file.
